Gryffindor Investigations
by vladfan
Summary: New Chapter 4 added. Harry pays a visit to the Quibbler... Rated K .
1. Chapter 1

The door flew open as if by magic—or, more accurately, as if an annoyed twentysomething wizard had kicked it open. Harry Potter squeezed his way through the doorway and into his front hall, his hands maintaining a tenuous grasp on a cardboard box containing photographs (both magical and non-), mementos (ditto), and the other assorted knickknacks one generally keeps on one's desk in one's office—until, of course, one no longer has an office, much less a desk in it. The box had grown exceedingly heavy as Harry had trudged up his front walkway, but while he could easily have transported it, and the three waiting for him in his car, using magic, given the mood he was in, carrying them manually seemed infinitely preferable. With any luck, he'd work off enough of his anger to keep him from blowing a hole in the nearest wall with his wand. If not, he'd have to wheedle Hermione into helping him fix it; after seven years at Hogwarts, two in Auror training, and three as a full-fledged Auror, Harry had learned that he was far better at blowing things apart than putting them back together.

In turn, Harry wrestled the other three boxes into his house, depositing them one after the other in the living room, then pulled his key out of the front lock and slammed the door closed. The manual labor hadn't worked. He still wanted to break something. He closed his eyes and drew on every lesson in self-control and discipline that Dumbledore and McGonagall had drilled into him. He consciously willed his breathing down to a normal rate, then reached even deeper inside himself and did the same with his heartbeat. He probed down to his glands and, with some concentration, cut off the flow of adrenaline to his bloodstream, then dealt with the chemical already there. Within ten minutes, Harry was calm again; to make sure he stayed that way, he deliberately left the boxes in the living room to unpack later and went to the kitchen to get some food.

There was still a slice left of Mrs. Weasley's meat pie. Despite the fact that he was now twenty-two years old, an Auror (_ex-Au—no_, he thought, _leave that one alone_), and rich by both wizard and Muggle standards, Harry had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Weasley still saw him and Ron as little boys. She regularly sent Harry "care packages" of food and homemade sweaters, invited him over for dinner almost every Sunday, and urged more leftovers on him than he could possibly eat when he took her up on those invitations.

_Of course_, he thought wryly, _it also could be that she knows what happens when Ron and I set foot in a kitchen. Some of the concoctions in Snape's Potions classes were more appetizing than the disasters I've come up with, and Ron's even worse._

With both Mrs. Weasley and Ron in his mind, Harry's thoughts naturally drifted to Ginny. It had been a few months since he'd heard from her, but when last they had communicated, she was loving her job in Japan, and had hinted that she'd be bringing a surprise home the next time she visited her parents—a surprise named Shiro Watanabe. Harry grinned at Mrs. Weasley's probable reaction; despite the fact that Harry and Ginny had called things quits for good four years before, he knew that Mrs. Weasley still hoped that Harry would marry into the family.

_She just doesn't understand,_ Harry thought as he transferred the pie to a plate, popped it into the microwave (not even Mr. Weasley would try to put metal in a microwave), and set the nuker for two minutes. _She's been my mother in everything but blood since I was twelve years old. She's given me more than I can ever repay, even if she'd accept payment. What further hold does she think she needs on me? I like Gin, but she and I are never going to be anything but friends. Besides, Ginny's a long trip even by broomstick, and she likes her job too much to transfer back._

_Well, at least she HAS a job._

_Unlike Ron._

_And, now, unlike me._

The pie was done; Harry gingerly removed the plate from the nuker and hot-potatoed it to the kitchen table, then blew on his slightly-singed fingers to cool them. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down to his "luxurious" lunch.

But as he took a bite of the rich meat pie, he thought, _Beats Ministry food any day. If Mrs. Weasley opened a cookshop, the Weasleys would be billionaires five times over._

Well, he wouldn't have to worry about Ministry food anymore, that was for sure. _I'm not sorry I quit,_ he thought fiercely. _It doesn't really matter who's in charge of the Ministry; there's something about the job that makes whoever holds it, even Kingsley, more concerned about keeping it, rather than doing what's right. It's not that old saying about how power corrupts; it doesn't. Professor Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in living memory, and he was absolutely incorruptible._

His eyes filled with sudden tears that had nothing to do with his scorched tongue. Six years, and he still missed Dumbledore as though the aged wizard had died the day before. Anguish gave way to anger at the memory, and it tied in neatly with his anger at the Ministry, for the two had one thing in common.

_Draco Malfoy._

Harry dumped the plate and goblet into the sink before he got an urge to throw them against the wall and stalked off towards the hall stairs. Malfoy had set in motion the chain of events that had culminated with Dumbledore's death at the hands of Severus Snape, and he had been the subject of the argument with Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt that had led to Harry's resignation as an Auror. And what galled Harry the most was that Snape had been acting under Dumbledore's orders, and Malfoy Voldemort's, but while Snape had died a horrible death, killed by Voldemort's snake, no one had seemed very interested in punishing any of the Malfoys after the war was over.

_Draco claimed that Voldemort would have killed his parents if he hadn't tried to kill Dumbledore, before Snape did it,_ Harry thought sourly as he mounted the stairs, _and then his mother gave me some cover during the final war. None of the three of them ever showed the slightest remorse over any of the things they'd done, but everyone either forgot or forgave them, anyway. And now, because I can't and won't do either, I'm out of a job!_

His bedroom at last. He threw himself down hard on the bed, then pounded the mattress once with his fists to further vent his spleen. If Malfoy had been there, Harry wouldn't have needed his wand; one look would have reduced the ex-Slytherin to smoldering ashes on the spot.

_He's up to something, I know he is,_ Harry thought, staring at the ceiling. _With his parents dead, he's got that whole fortune to play with—and I've never known Malfoy when he didn't have something underhanded going on. That accident must have been a dream come true for him………_

Harry sat up suddenly. _Maybe it _wasn't_ an accident………_

He threw himself back down again, shaking his head at his silliness. _You know better than that, Potter. There were only two times when Malfoy was ready and willing to fight you straight-on without Crabbe or Goyle backing him up: the time you said something about his mother, and the time you said something TO his mother. He loved her; even he wouldn't have killed her just to get his inheritance a little sooner._

_Merlin's beard, what I wouldn't give to nail him for something! Any excuse…_

_Any _excuse_……_

_That's all Malfoy really is, isn't he? An excuse._

He propped himself up on his elbows and told himself, _Let's be honest, Potter. You haven't been happy working for the Ministry in over two years. You've been wanting to quit for months. You're too used to being a leader; it's just not in you to work for someone else. If it hadn't been Malfoy, something else would have made you quit by the end of the year._

_So where does that leave me? Washed up?_

He sat up, and thought, _Okay, enough with the self-pity. Hermione's always nagging me to think things through. It's not like I don't have options; I'm only twenty-two. If I want to, I can still trade on my name to get me at least considered for any kind of job I'd want—but that would just go back to taking orders from other people, and I've proved that I'm no good at that. What skills do I have? Besides Quidditch, I mean._

_Well, after three years as an Auror, I'm in top condition. I'm good at fighting, both with wands and hand-to-hand. I know how to do an investigation………hmm……now there's a thought………_

Deep within Harry's mind, the smallest seed of an idea had sprouted.


	2. Lunch with Hermione

They were sitting in a diner in London, having lunch. Harry had to admit that Hermione looked happier than she'd been in a long time.

Usually so quick on the uptake, Hermione had been painfully slow to realize that she loved Ron Weasley, and he her; Ron, of course, had been even slower. Finally figuring each other out during what would have been their seventh year at Hogwarts, the two had embarked on a relationship that had seemed like something out of a storybook—for about two years. After that, the relationship had begun a long, slow downward spiral, with Ron growing increasingly sullen and uncommunicative and Hermione angrier and more anxious.

Even if he hadn't been having his own problems with Ginny at the time, Harry would have stayed very firmly out of it. When the pair had finally split up, Harry had talked with them both, separately, and told them that he intended to stay friends with both of them. It had been hard, but his friendship with Hermione had survived.

"......so I've decided to become a private inquiry agent," Harry finished telling her as they sat drinking coffee.

Hermione beamed at him. "It's about time," she said. "Honestly, Harry, you should have left the Ministry ages ago! This means you're going to move back up here, of course…"

The question caught him by surprise. "Um……why would I do that?" he asked.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione said in the same exasperated voice she'd been using on him since they were eleven years old. "I keep telling you that you have to………"

"'Think Things Through,'" Harry chorused with her. "I know, I know! So what haven't I thought through? Why do I have to move back to London?"

"How much call for a private inquiry agent is there in Sevenoaks?" Hermione replied. "You'd have to maintain an office in London, and it's not a nine to five job, you'd have to drive back and forth at all hours of the day and night! And why you'd want to do that when you've got a perfectly good house here in the city……"

"I don't want to live there!" Harry exploded.

People at nearby tables turned around sharply at his outburst. Harry flushed with embarrassment. He leaned forward and said, very quietly, "Look, I don't want to live in Grimmauld Place. I like that little place I've got in Kent. It's _mine_. And……I've just never been comfortable in Grimmauld Place. Even though I was only there for a year, there are too many memories of………well, Sirius."

He felt his eyes tearing up; he blinked away the wetness angrily as Hermione reached across the table and took his hand.

"I understand, Harry," she told him softly, then added with a grin, "believe it or not. My mom's parents had a summer place down in Brighton. They died about a year before I got accepted to Hogwarts.

"My mom was determined to sell the place, but my father wanted to keep it; he loved the sea and he loved the house. But Mom thought it had too many old memories. So do you know what Dad told her?"

Harry shook his head.

"'So we'll make some new memories.' That's what you've got to do with the Grimmauld Place house, Harry. It's yours now. Put yourself into it and see what you can make of it."

She squeezed Harry's hand in sympathy; Harry squeezed back.

"You're amazing, do you know that?" he said. "You always know what to do, and what to say to people."

Now it was Hermione's turn to blush. "Not always," she said with an embarrassed smile.

"Oh, yeah? Name one time that you've been in a situation where you didn't have any idea how to make it work out the way you wanted it too."

"Ron."

Hermione's expression darkened, and Harry knew with awful certainty that he'd put his foot in it. "Oh, dragon dung…………Hermione, I'm sorry………"

"It's okay." She sat back, releasing his hand, and took several long, deep breaths, trying to master her emotions. "And actually, it's not true; I knew exactly what I ought to have done. I was just too angry and too hurt at the time to do it."

"But I don't want to talk about it," she continued hurriedly. "Let's talk about you and your new career! I expect you'll have an assistant? Someone in the Dr. Watson or Captain Hastings tradition? Thick as a brick and existing only to be dazzled by your brilliance?"

"Oh, everyone does that," Harry scoffed. "I was thinking of the reverse—making my assistant the brilliant one who does all the work, and I'd just take all the credit."

"Oh, wonderful," Hermione retorted, but with an amused look in her eye. "Advertise it like that in the Daily Prophet, I'm sure you'll have loads of responses. Who wouldn't want a job like that?"

"Actually, I sort of already had someone in mind," Harry replied.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. Someone who's an absolute genius, female, brown bushy hair, owns a cat named Crookshanks…………"

"No, you don't!!!" Hermione laughed. "You're _not_ going to drag me into this. I happen to have a job already, thank you very much, and I love it!"

"How's that going, anyway?" Harry asked, curious.

"It's wonderful." Hermione's face took on a kind of dreamy wonder that Harry had never seen on her before. "We're researching wizard and Muggle genes to see if we can find out how Muggle parents produce wizard children and why wizard parents produce Squibs. I was born for this, Harry."

"Bet you were," Harry said with mock sadness. "Oh, well………there goes my brilliant idea."

"Seriously, though," Hermione said, "have you thought of asking Ron?"

Harry looked uncomfortable. His friendship with Hermione had indeed survived the tumultuous years after Hogwarts, but his and Ron's had not. Harry hadn't heard from the other Gryffindor for over a year. Talks with Mrs. Weasley and Ginny hadn't helped; Ron hadn't spoken with his mother or his sister in almost as long, and neither knew what was behind it.

"Well………I guess I should, shouldn't I? I mean, we used to be best mates. But he just……stopped talking to me a while back. I sent him owls for about six months. He just wouldn't respond."

Hermione leaned into him, her voice lowered to a whisper. "He loves you, Harry."

Harry stared at her.

"That was why he and I broke up. And this is what I should have done at the time, rather than waiting all these years. He's been in love with you since we started at Hogwarts; he just wouldn't admit it to himself. But the last couple of years we were together—I'd hear him talking in his sleep. Saying your name."

Harry's mouth was working, but no sound was coming out. Ron? In love with _him_? "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I've ever been of anything," Hermione said firmly. "It must have been tearing him apart—putting aside how hard it is to admit to yourself that you're gay, he must have been jealous as hell of Ginny, and furious with himself that he wasn't being honest with me. And I…" she flushed, "I didn't make it easy on him. I treated him badly, Harry—once, he got so enraged by my goading him that he……" She trailed off.

Harry's eyes widened. "Did he hit you?" he demanded. When Hermione didn't answer, Harry reached over and grasped her hand. "Hermione," he said, enunciating each word, "did he hit you?"

_If he did_, Harry thought fiercely, _best mates or no, even with all we went through together, I'll find him and I'll beat him to a bloody pulp with my own two hands._

But Hermione's next words not only put an end to that plan, they very nearly put an end to Harry's sanity.

"No, Harry," she said, her eyes blazing into Harry's with an awful sincerity that frightened him, "he didn't hit me." She swallowed, hard, then averted her gaze and flushed red.

"He tried to kill himself."

Harry was very thankful he was sitting down; even so, he still felt his insides turn to jelly. "He……what?"

"He tried to kill himself," Hermione repeated. Tears welled up in her eyes at the memory. "I said some horrible things to him, Harry……"

"You were upset," Harry began weakly.

"No, I was cruel, and I was hateful, and I was everything we used to despise in Draco Malfoy and his gang," Hermione said firmly. "When you're in a relationship, a real relationship, the other person knows every weakness, every soft spot you have. Hell, Harry, you must know this—you and Ginny were almost the same as me and Ron.

"And that night, Harry, that fight we had……I was as merciless as a Slytherin. Every soft spot Ron had, I hit, as hard as I could. Morgan help me, I even dredged up things from when we were in school, things we hadn't thought about for years. I told him how I'd Confunded Cormac McLaggen, our sixth year—at the Quidditch tryouts. That he'd never have made the team without me." The tears were trickling down her face now, and Hermione made no effort to stop them. "And finally, Ron grabbed his wand from the dressing table……I thought he was going to try to curse me, but he pointed it at himself."

She took a long, deep breath, trying to calm herself. "I had been carrying my wand, so by the time he got his, I had mine in my hand. When I realized what he was about to do, I disarmed him." She gave a small shudder, and Harry slid his chair next to hers to put his arm around her trembling shoulders. "The look he gave me, Harry—I have never seen such loathing in anyone's eyes, not even Malfoy's. And what made it all the more horrible was that at least half of it was directed at himself."

Wordlessly, Harry pulled her to him and held her while the tears continued to come. He could see other customers looking at them as if they were wondering whether they should intervene. The waitress took a tentative step in their direction, but a quick shake of Harry's head made her retreat.

Finally, Hermione pulled away from him, with red, puffy eyes, but mistress of herself once more. "He left that night. Just took a few clothes and some money; he took nothing else, not even his wand. He hasn't spoken to me since; I've sent owls, but he won't answer."

"Maybe I can talk to him……" Harry said weakly.

"I think you should, Harry—but not for my sake." She looked him full in the face, and asked, "How do you feel about Ron? Really feel about him?"

Harry couldn't answer. He'd known he was gay for years—it was the reason he and Ginny had broken up—but Ron? Could he feel that way about Ron?

And if he could—what in Merlin's name was he going to do about it?


	3. Ron

_Ron lives _here_?_

Harry surveyed the shabby, dilapidated old tenement with a certain amount of distaste. He was only a few short blocks from the King's Cross station, but he might as well have been in another world. Though the neighborhood was being "redeveloped", King's Cross still had a long way to go. Every third building was boarded over as abandoned; with every other step, he had to avoid discarded needles, crack pipes, and other signs of the inhabitants' total lack of hope. Everywhere he went, the smells of rotting garbage and worse assaulted his nostrils; he risked a Bubble-Head Charm when the smells became too foul to stomach.

So far, he hadn't run into any prostitutes. Maybe they had the night off.

It was hard for him to believe that Ron was living in this decrepit rat-trap in this dodgy a neighborhood. _I would have thought his mother would have swept in and dragged him out by his ears_, he thought.

Normally, the image would have brought a wicked grin to his face, but the building and the neighborhood were like dementors; they seemed to suck the happiness out of you. _You're stalling, Potter._ Harry told himself firmly. _Ring the bloody buzzer and let's get on with this._

The names of the building's inhabitants were listed in crude pencil on the doorjamb; most had at least one letter missing, as paint had chipped and peeled, and rain and snow had washed away much of what was left. Harry narrowed the possibilities down until he had the most likely permutation ("V sl j"), and pressed the buzzer next to it.

Within moments, a surly voice that sounded far more like his uncle than his best friend demanded, "Who the hell is it?"

"It's Harry, Ron."

There was a pause, and then the voice snarled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Visiting you. People do that every now and again. Will you let me in? I need to talk to you."

"Piss off!"

Harry had expected something of that sort. He sighed, closed his eyes, and reached out with his mind and his magic. He wasn't very good at this sort of spell, and he hated using it; it always brought back bitter memories of how many times Voldemort had intruded into his own mind. In this case, though, it was easy—he'd shared magic with Ron for years, and he knew the inside of the other man's skull almost as well as he knew his own. It took him almost no time at all to pinpoint Ron's exact location in the building, and, with a crack of imploding air, Harry Disapparated.

He reappeared in what looked like the sitting room—mostly because Ron was sitting in it. Harry was shocked at his friend's appearance. Ron looked, quite simply, like hell. He'd put on at least ten kilos in the last year, and his once-strong chin had gotten jowls as a result. His red hair was lank and unkempt and looked like he hadn't washed it in a week. His t-shirt was torn, and both it and his jeans looked absolutely filthy.

One thing that hadn't changed, however, was his temper. Ron jumped to his feet as Harry appeared, screaming in outrage. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Who the fuck do you think you are? How _dare _you? _HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?_"

"You wouldn't come to the door," Harry said reasonably. "And we need to talk, Ron."

"I've got nothing to say to you. You've got five seconds to get out of here," Ron growled, clenching his fists and stepping to face Harry, "then I take you apart."

At least his breath wasn't too bad. Harry didn't flinch, and said, "Ron, I had lunch with Hermione the other day. She told me about why you two broke up."

Ron blinked. "She—she what?"

"She told me about why you two broke up," Harry repeated.

Ron's face turned pale and his eyes widened. His lips began to tremble; Harry wanted to reach out to him, but held himself back. It wasn't time, not yet.

"W-what did she tell you?" Ron gasped.

"Everything."

"That….that….." Ron turned away, a look of utter disgust on his face. Harry took a moment to give the room a quick scan. No outward sign of alcohol, or drugs—but that could be even worse. It could mean that Ron didn't even care enough to make the effort to become a drunk.

"Ron," Harry said quietly, "why didn't you ever tell me? Why wouldn't you talk to me?"

"Oh, that would have been just fine, wouldn't it?" Ron drawled sarcastically. "'Hey, Harry, I know you're dating my sister and all, but I've just figured out I'm a bloody queer, and I was just wondering if you might be too?' Why the hell would I have said something mental like that?"

"Why the hell not?" Harry snapped. "Do you really think I would have cut you off? Chucked ten years of being best mates just because you fancied blokes?"

"YES!!!"

Harry couldn't remember a time they'd been in this position: nose-to-nose, fists clenched, shouting at each other like two schoolboys getting themselves worked up for a scrap. With an effort, he calmed himself down, and changed the topic. "Ron," he said, "I'm starting a new business. A private inquiry agency. I'm going to need a lot of help getting it started, and I thought it would be just brilliant if you and I—"

"SHUT UP!!!!" Ron screamed. "You think I'm bloody pathetic, don't you? You think I'm a bloody failure, don't you? You think you have to give me a damned handout, you think—"

"I think you're my best mate, when you aren't acting like a bloody prat!" Harry snapped. "I think that there's no one else I want to watch my back in a scrap, when you actually care enough about anyone but yourself to make the effort!"

"You……you……"

"And most of all, I think you and I belong together, Ron!! And yes, I mean _together_."

Ron spun around, his fist swinging in a wide arc toward Harry's head. But Harry's Auror training had involved extensive self-defense. He blocked the blow easily, then used Ron's momentum to swing him into the wall. He caught Ron's other arm by the wrist and forced both arms over Ron's head.

Ron kicked and thrashed like something wild. Spit flecked from his lips as he raged, "_Let go of me! Get your fucking hands off of me!_"

Harry kissed him.

It was a bit of a risk; Ron could easily have bitten down, but he was apparently too surprised to even think of that. Harry's tongue wrestled against Ron's, even as Harry could feel Ron struggling to free himself. But Ron was out of condition, and Harry was in the best shape of his life; he easily held Ron's arms pinioned over his head, and pressed Ron's body into the wall with his own.

Harry continued to kiss Ron, hoping to prove with acts what Ron wouldn't believe in words—that Harry loved him, needed him, wanted Ron with him no matter what the past had been. He wanted so desperately to caress the big redhead, but Ron continued to struggle, and Harry kept him pinned.

And then it happened. Ron's struggles began to relent, slowly but surely, and then ceased altogether. His tongue met Harry's in joy, not anger, and the tension eased out of his body as he surrendered himself to the love he'd kept secret for so long.

Harry, knowing he was taking an even bigger risk, took his hands away from Ron's wrists and slid them down Ron's arms. If Ron was faking, now would be the time for him to take a free shot………

But Ron wasn't faking. His arms wrapped around Harry and pulled him closer, holding him so tightly that it was almost as if he were trying to combine himself and Harry into a single being. Harry's hands were everywhere, feeling beyond the extraneous fat that inactivity and depression had added to Ron's frame, seeking and finding the muscles underneath.

At last the two men came up for air. Harry was surprised to see tears trickling down Ron's face. "Crying?" he asked softly, his thumbs gently brushing the wetness away.

Ron blushed. "Yeah, I guess………Harry, if you only knew how long I've wanted this…………"

"I can imagine," Harry whispered, "because I've probably wanted it as long."

Ron tried to kiss Harry again, but Harry put one finger on the redhead's lips. "Where's your bedroom?"

Ron jerked his head sideways. "Down the hall. But Harry, it's a crapper, a real shithole……"

"So?"

The room was as bad as Ron had warned him. Dirty clothes, dirty dishes from several meals, and a faintly unpleasant smell coming from the sheets. Harry didn't care one bit.

Ron was leading him, his hand in Harry's. Harry suddenly pulled his hand free and gave Ron a playful shove that sent him facedown onto the bed. Harry was behind him in an instant, his lips and teeth nuzzling and nibbling the back and sides of Ron's neck.

Ron turned to face him, and his lips met Harry's for a brief kiss, before Harry went back to work on Ron's neck, strewing light, tender kisses like rose petals across Ron's flesh. They rolled over with Ron on top, and Harry's legs wrapped themselves around Ron's hips and drew him in closer.

Ron lifted Harry's shirt out of his pants and looked in envious wonder at Harry's torso. "Like you'd been sculpted," he breathed in wonder. "Just beautiful."

"And it's all yours," Harry told him.

Ron lowered his face to Harry's chest. His tongue flicked out and hit a nipple, and Harry spasmed in ecstasy at the touch. Ron kissed Harry's chest, his abs, even his ribs—and Harry, who was extremely ticklish, would shiver wildly at every kiss.

Straightening up, Ron started to pull off his shirt, then stopped. A look of doubt crept across his face. "It's not as nice as yours," he muttered sadly.

"It's you," Harry smiled. "That's all I care about."

Ron held Harry's gaze for a long time, seemingly weighing something. Then, with a deep breath, he pulled off his shirt.

There was no getting around it; Ron had gotten fat. But again, Harry didn't give a damn. If he felt anything but passion and love for the man who had been a surrogate brother for eleven years, it was anger at all the time wasted in those years, time they could been together.

And Harry wasn't going to let something so trivial as a little fat keep him from sharing himself, and his life, with the man he loved.

_How the hell could I have missed it?_ he thought, even as Ron pulled off Harry's shirt and tossed both of them aside, then removed Harry's shoes and socks and his own. _It was right there, at the Triwizard Tournament. The person most dear to me was taken, and I had to get him back. It wasn't Hermione, or Ginny. It was Ron._

Ron's hands were fumbling with Harry's belt buckle; Harry gently pushed them aside, saying, "It's a little tricky." He undid the clasp, then leaned back, waiting. Ron got the message; he pulled on the buckle, and the belt slid from around Harry's waist. Ron sent it to join the rest of their clothes, then undid the button on Harry's trousers. He slid back to Harry's ankles, and pulled on the pant cuffs.

Harry's pants slid off without a hitch, leaving him clad only in his briefs.

"My god, Harry……what an amazing body you have," Ron gasped.

"The better to wrap around you, my dear," Harry laughed in a singsong voice. "Now get your pants off and get back on top of me!"

Ron complied so quickly it was a wonder Harry didn't miss it when he blinked. Harry was gratified to see that, no matter how else Ron had let himself and his life go, his underwear was spotlessly clean. That would have been a dealbreaker…

And then Ron was on top of him again, and there was more laughter, and more tears, and more love and passion than Harry had ever felt before. Ron cupped his face in his two hands and kissed him, hard and rough, his body pressing against Harry's, both of them begging for release.

And then Ron broke off the kiss, and slid Harry's briefs from around his hips.

Harry lay on the bed, completely naked—and Ron hesitated. Harry had never seen such fear in his best friend's eyes.

"It's yours, mate," he said quietly. "It's all yours."

Ron swallowed, hard, his eyes still fearful—and then he reached down and slid off his boxers.

And the next two hours passed in a blur of tears and laughter and astonishment and pure, joyous loving, two young men giving in to the longing neither had even knew they'd felt until this moment.

It hurt a bit, when their bodies finally joined, but Harry forced himself past the pain and urged Ron on. Ron obliged. Years and years of pent-up frustration spurred him on as he slammed into Harry again and again and again, even as he bent over to nuzzle Harry's neck and jaw and the bedsprings shrieked in rhythm to his thrusts.

And the end……was like nothing either had ever dreamed.

Ron collapsed, completely spent, on top of Harry. Harry's arms wrapped around him, and for a long while the only sound in the room was the panting breaths of the two men.

Until finally Ron spoke, softly. "Private inquiry agent, eh?"

"That's right," Harry replied. "'Gryffindor Investigations.' What do you say?"

"What if we fall on our faces before the year's out?"

"Then we'll have time to come up with something else."

"What if we decide we hate it?"

"Then we'll cash it in and go bum around the Continent for a couple of years."

"What if we take on some Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws as partners?"

"Then we'll change the business cards." Harry took Ron's head in his hands. "Please, Ron. I need you. And not just for the investigations, either."

Ron's only response was a kiss.


	4. Luna Lovegood

Luna Lovegood had a dreamy smile on her face.

There was nothing unusual about that, of course; Luna nearly always had a dreamy smile on her face. Combined with her blonde hair and her open, guileless expression, it made people think that she was more than a bit stupid, which, in turn, made them take her condescendingly lightly.

And Luna, whether interviewing subjects for stories or negotiating contracts with writers, liked to be taken lightly—right up until the person in question was forcibly reminded that Luna had been in Ravenclaw, and that the only things sharper than a Ravenclaw's mind are her talons.

In point of fact, however, Luna's metaphoric talons were empty at the moment; in her non-metaphoric hand was a circulation report that was the cause of this particular dreamy smile. _The Quibbler_'s sales were skyrocketing, much to the dismay—and detriment—of the more mainstream _Daily Prophet_.

_I'll have to send a copy of this to Father_, Luna mused. _He'll be thrilled. It's the Prophet's own fault, really. They spent four years reporting everything about Harry _except_ the truth, and even their readers wouldn't put up with that forever. Then, of course, completely ignoring all the Crumple-Horned Snorack sightings Father and I told them about……_

She looked up. Elizabeth, her half-ghost secretary, was hovering in the doorway. Luna still wasn't quite sure how one got to be half a ghost, even after eight months of having Elizabeth, but however Elizabeth had gotten the way she was, Luna had to admit that she was a very efficient secretary.

_Even if I did have to ask her to wait to have her lunch until I was as far from the office as I could be_, Luna thought with a mental shudder. Aloud, she said, "Yes, Elizabeth?"

"There's a young man here to see you, Miss Lovegood," Elizabeth replied. Her voice was somewhere between a moan and a shriek.

"Does he have an appointment?"

"No," Elizabeth said, "but he claims to be Harry Potter. Shall I call security?"

Luna's smile widened into a full-fledged grin, half at Elizabeth's suspiciousness, half at the fact that Harry was here. "No, of course not! Send him in!"

Elizabeth face said plainly that she did not approve, but she nodded obediently and turned to the outer office. As she floated aside, Harry appeared in the doorway, his handsome face beaming.

Luna hadn't seen Harry in a couple of years; she decided that those years had been very good to him. She had always found him attractive, but since he was involved with her friend Ginny Weasley for most of that time, she never considered acting on that attraction.

Luna smiled, rose and came from behind her desk with arms open. "Hello, Harry," she murmured as she hugged him.

"Hi, Luna," Harry said. He broke away to hold her at arm's length. "You look great! How's your dad?"

"He's fine, thanks," Luna told him. "He likes being retired, I think. He sent me a postcard from the Canary Islands a couple of days ago; he managed to sunburn himself completely, of course."

She motioned for Harry to take a chair as she reclaimed her seat. "Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water? Pumpkin juice?"

"Water would be great," Harry said gratefully. "I can't believe the weather we've been having. It's not supposed to get this hot in England!!!"

"E—" The call died in Luna's mouth as Elizabeth, having anticipated her request, floated in with a large bottle of mineral water, which Harry accepted a bit dubiously.

Harry took a sip, and leaned back in his chair, savoring the coolness. "You just saved a life," he moaned. "So……editor in chief of _The Quibbler_! And I heard you're giving the _Prophet_ a run! Your father must be really proud of you, Luna, really proud!"

Luna ever-so-slightly lifted an eyebrow. Unconsciously, the fingers on her left hand began to flex—exactly like a raven's talons. "Harry," she said directly, "was there something in particular you wanted from me?"

"Luna!" Harry looked shocked. "What makes you think I want something?"

Luna leaned forward on her desk, her eyes boring directly into Harry's. "We haven't seen each other in two years, Harry," she pointed out, "and now all of a sudden you turn up in my office, first talking about the weather, and then gushing praise at me. You want something. What is it?"

Harry fiddled with the top of his water bottle. "Well," he said, "you might have heard that I quit the Ministry."

"Yes, I did," Luna agreed. "I even heard why—you want them to investigate Draco Malfoy. You think he's involved in something illegal."

"That's pretty much it," Harry nodded. "Anyway, I'm opening up my own business. 'Gryffindor Investigations.'"

"Are you going after Draco yourself?" Luna asked sharply.

Harry shook his head. "Right now, it's just me and Ron Weasley…"

"You two are friends again? _That_, I didn't know."

Now it was Harry's turn to smile dreamily. "Yeah, we're friends again. But I don't have the resources for what I want to do to Malfoy. If something I'm working on happens to involve something of his, then I will, of course, blow it to hell if I can."

"I'd have been surprised if you'd said anything else," Luna smiled. "So how does this involve me?

"Well……" Harry said, "in order to _get_ the resources to eventually go after Malfoy, Ron and I are going to need a few cases to get the ball rolling. We _could_ always take out an advert, but I was kind of hoping your front page was clear sometime this week."

"You want me to put you on the front page?"

"Please, Luna?" Harry put on his most simpering expression. "Pretty please? I'll do anything. I'll even buy a subscription for my aunt and uncle."

"Now _that_ would be a first," Luna laughed. "_The Quibbler_'s never given anyone a massive coronary before. Hang on while I get one of my staff photographers."


End file.
